Biography

Let’s start with the obvious: I’ve been around the block—and not just the kind with cobblestone streets and charming little cafes. No, my block includes the seedy underbellies of port towns, the glittering ballrooms of corrupt nobles, and the occasional dungeon (and no, not the fun kind). My travels have taken me from the sun-soaked deserts of Hextor to the shadowy forests of gods-know-where, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: wherever there’s power, gold, or gossip, there’s someone ready to lose it all to a redhead with a good lie and better legs.

My early days weren’t exactly glamorous. I started as a scrappy little pickpocket, charming my way out of trouble and into the coin purses of drunken sailors. One particularly memorable night, I accidentally stumbled into a spy ring when I tried to rob a “merchant” who turned out to be an operative. Instead of slitting my throat, the man offered me a job, and the rest, as they say, is history. Or at least it would be, if spies got credit for anything. Spoiler: we don’t.

Fast forward a few years, and I’m neck-deep in espionage, playing every role from noble mistress to tavern wench. One time, I spent six months infiltrating a pirate crew, posing as the captain’s sultry concubine. It was all rum-soaked nights and knife fights until I realized I actually liked the guy. Too bad my mission involved framing him for treason and sinking his ship. What can I say? Business is business. Still, I’ll never forget the way he screamed my name as the waves swallowed his dreams. Romantic, right

And then there was the incident in the Frosthollow mountains. Picture this: I’m dressed as a traveling merchant, trying to smuggle a stolen artifact through customs when a very handsome border guard decides to search me—thoroughly. Long story short, the artifact ended up hidden in a place I’ll never admit, and I had to seduce my way out of what could have been a very cold prison cell. Let’s just say it wasn’t my proudest moment, but hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

Speaking of seduction, I’ve lost track of how many lovers I’ve had to charm, dupe, or downright manipulate for the sake of a mission. There was that duchess who thought I was her long-lost sister (don’t ask), the warlord who only liked women who could arm wrestle him (I let him win, obviously), and the alchemist who made me a love potion as a gift—which I promptly used on his rival. And no, I don’t regret it.

Not all my escapades involve seduction, though. Take the time I had to sneak into a monastery to steal a sacred scroll. I dressed as a nun (a very convincing one, if I may say so) and spent three weeks chanting and pretending to care about the divine. My cover was blown when one of the monks caught me teaching the novices how to play strip poker. I escaped with the scroll, of course, but I’m pretty sure I’m still banned from holy ground in at least three provinces.

Then there was the time I accidentally started a war. Look, in my defense, I didn’t know that pretending to be a diplomat’s mistress would result in two kingdoms duking it out over “honor.” I was just there to steal some love letters and plant fake documents. But hey, the war ended quickly, and I got a nice payout from both sides for my trouble. Call it a win-win.

Oh, and how could I forget the infamous “naked rooftop escape” incident? Picture me, clad in nothing but my revolvers (Tit and Tit, naturally), fleeing across the rooftops of a noble estate while an angry baron yelled about his missing jewels. I’d tell you more, but let’s just say some stories are best left to the imagination. Besides, I’m not entirely sure which parts were real and which were just the wine talking.

Despite all the chaos, there’s a method to my madness. Every heist, seduction, and scandal has a purpose, even if that purpose is just to keep things interesting. My work may be messy, morally questionable, and occasionally involve getting slapped, stabbed, or both, but it’s also fun. I mean, who wouldn’t want a life full of adventure, danger, and inappropriate flirting?

At the end of the day, my life is one big, ridiculous story—a tale of intrigue, deception, and just the right amount of raunchy humor. Am I a hero? Absolutely not. A villain? Depends on who you ask. But one thing’s for sure: I’m unforgettable. And really, isn’t that what matters? Well, that and having the best pair of pew pews in the business. Pew pew, darling. Pew pew.

My travels brought me to the abandoned Emerald City, a true hellhole scarred by the remnants of an alleged Eldritch horde. The place reeked of despair and decay, but sneaking past the dim-witted patrols proved effortless. I didn’t even break a sweat—though that’s nothing to boast about, considering their sheer incompetence. Picking through the belongings of the dead felt a bit grim, sure, but it’s not like they had much use for their worldly possessions anymore. It wasn’t stealing, I told myself; it was “tactically acquiring and redistributing abandoned goods.” Mostly, I found scraps—others had clearly shared my entrepreneurial spirit and beaten me to the punch.​

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Then I saw it: a large white manor, exactly as described. The door barely hung from its hinges, an open invitation for opportunists like me. With confidence, I approached and kicked the door. Unfortunately, the damn thing splintered faster than I expected, and my foot went straight through.​

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Now, I like to think of myself as graceful, but pulling my foot free was an experience worthy of slapstick. The force sent me toppling forward, landing face-first on the cold stone floor inside. Smooth, right? After dusting myself off—because even when covered in debris, a girl has to look her best—I surveyed the manor. It was in ruins, coated in layers of dust and cobwebs, but something shiny caught my eye: a large, ornate mirror caked in grime.​

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It matched the description my contractor gave, right down to its obnoxious opulence. He’d insisted it be handled with gloves, but I’d pegged him as a germaphobe and saw no harm in giving it a personal touch. Dropping my trousers, I pressed my bare backside against the mirror, polishing it with a little "cheeky" defiance. That’s when things took a turn.​

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From the mirror erupted a cloud of smoke, and out stepped a woman claiming to be a Djinn. She declared I’d freed her and offered the standard fairytale pitch: three wishes. But trust isn’t exactly my strong suit, and she reeked of deception. So, as my first “wish,” I told her to get laid and piss off.​

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Big mistake. She sprouted an appendage I’d rather not describe, and let’s just say we “danced.” I’ve had better; I’ve had worse. But I never turn down a good tussle. Afterward, we shared a cigar—the universal way to bond after magical combat—and I asked her name. She called herself “Secret,” a name as ridiculous as the story she proceeded to unload. Bound to the mirror, cursed to serve, all that tragic nonsense. I don’t have patience for sob stories, but even I have a soft spot for the enslaved. My mother raised me right, after all.

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We struck a deal. She’d grant me those cursed wishes, and in return, I’d find a way to break her free. Leaving the manor, I whistled for my raptoid mount—affectionately named "Dick"—and introduced him to Secret. She climbed aboard, and together we rode off into the sunset, two unlikely companions with no idea what the hell we were doing.

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The plan, if you could call it that, was to head for the City of Clocks. A place full of scholarly types, the kind who’d probably have a solution hidden in their precious books. Of course, paying for knowledge wasn’t on the table. A revolver aimed at the right face has always worked just as well as gold. And really, what’s the point of being a rogue if you don’t have a little fun along the way?

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The life of a spy isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Most folk think it’s all thrilling escapes and seductive intrigue, but nah, let me tell ya—it’s a godforsaken grind of living lies and dodging knives aimed at your back. Even those closest to me, like Secret, don’t really get it. Not that I blame her. Djinn or not, she’s got her own crap to deal with. Still, the cheeky minx insists I’ve got two wishes left, so I figured I’d use one to sort a long-standing issue.​

The thing with these caster revolvers is, while they’re flashy as hell, reloading them leaves me wide open. So, for my second wish, I asked Secret to grant me the ability to harness energy like she could, but in a way that suited my undeniable flair. Honestly, I half-expected her to screw me over—wouldn’t have been the first time someone tried to shaft me in a deal.

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But nope, my girl came through for her favorite giantess. Turns out, though, getting a new skill and mastering it are two very different beasts. Learning to wield energy is a lot like sex—requires time, sweat, patience, and practice. And by the end of it, you’re sore, loose, and questioning your life choices. Well, assuming your partner’s, uh, adequately equipped. Anyway, there we were, two gals alone in the desert, drunk off the last fifth of vodka, going pew-pew and laughing like idiots.

Some might say getting wasted while learning to channel magic is a terrible idea, but what can I say? Risk gets my blood pumping. Over the next few years, we trained by day, flirted shamelessly by afternoon, and procured forbidden books for her by night. Secret became a friend with benefits, but she couldn’t know the truth about me. One slip of the tongue could jeopardize my mission, not to mention she’d never believe my claims to the throne. Plus, Djinns don’t sleep—something I learned fast. She was always ready to push me to my limits, and honestly, that demanding streak? Kinda hot.

After years of practice, I finally mastered the technique, and to celebrate, I organized a big heist. The target? Some pompous noble’s prized library. We cleaned the place out, and when a few backstabbing bastards tried to pull a fast one, I gave them a taste of my new finger-blasting skills. Literal, not figurative—get your mind out of the gutter.

Still, the whole “no honor among thieves” shtick gets old. Turns out, the noble I robbed—a cockless buffoon—developed an unhealthy obsession with me. He hired mercenaries, sending them after me like I was some prize to be hunted. Naturally, I dealt with his goons, one by one, until I decided I’d had enough. Time to end it.

So, I approached him with my best “you caught me” face and laid on the charm. Seduction came easy—I’ve always been good at getting under someone’s skin, figuratively and literally. One tussle under the sheets, and he was wrapped around my finger. Afterward, while he snored like a pig in heat, I lubed up my fist, kissed him gently, and rammed it up his hairy arse. And then? Bang. His stomach popped like a bloody water balloon.

Was it excessive? Maybe. But let’s just say it was an… intense experience for both of us. Pretty sure he climaxed before he died, which, if anything, makes me a giver. With that mess behind me, I was free to move on—another lie, another disguise, another mission. All for the good of my people, or so I tell myself. Just another smile and another day.

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It all started with Florentina, the meathead of the family. Don't get me wrong, I love her to bits, but if there’s a problem that can’t be solved with muscles, she’s about as useful as a chocolate sword. The plan? Break into some ancient vault, nab the Primordial Heart, and use its power to unite the necrotic swamplands. Easy, right? Sure, if you ignore the hordes of undead guardians, the impenetrable security, and the fact that this little heist would likely have me “killed” afterward.​

"Listen, meathead," I told her as we crouched behind some overgrown ruins, plotting our approach. "You might be the brawn, but this needs brains too, which is why I’m here." She just grunted and flexed, her muscles rippling like she was auditioning for a statuesque role in a sweaty mythological drama. Typical Florentina.​

The first part was simple: sneak past the undead guardians. By “sneak,” I mean I did all the sneaking while Florentina stood there like a beacon of raw intimidation. If one of them even twitched, she’d send it flying with one of her bone-crushing punches. At one point, I swear she threw one at another, bowling them both over like rotten pins.

“Subtle,” I hissed, rolling my eyes.

“Effective,” she shot back with that smug grin of hers.​

We finally made it to the vault, and that’s where my skills came in. The lock was a puzzle—ancient runes, traps, and mechanisms designed to stump even the cleverest thieves. But Tit-Tit here? I was born for this. As I worked, Florentina leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with a mix of admiration and boredom.

“You know,” I said as I disarmed the last trap, “for someone who relies so much on their biceps, you’re awfully quiet during the important bits. Gotta keep the brain cells from overheating, huh?”

She just smirked. “I’d flex, but I don’t want you getting distracted.”

Cheeky bastard.

The vault door creaked open, revealing the Primordial Heart—a pulsating, grotesque thing, beating with a rhythm that made my stomach churn. Florentina didn’t even hesitate. She marched up to it, grabbed the thing with both hands, and, before I could even make a snarky comment, sank her teeth into it like it was her post-training protein snack.

“Good?” I asked, grimacing.

“Tastes like power,” she said between bites.

That’s when all hell broke loose. Turns out, munching on ancient artifacts has a way of setting off alarms, and the undead weren’t too happy about it. We fought our way out—well, Florentina fought. I did what I do best: dodging, weaving, and occasionally shooting some poor sod in the skull.

Then Bersia showed up. Unlike Florentina, who’s all muscles, and me, who’s all charm, Bersia was the family’s moral compass—or tried to be. She wasn’t about to let us walk away with the heart, not without a fight.

“Don’t do this,” she pleaded, standing in our path with her sword drawn. “You’ll doom us all.”

“Doom’s overrated,” I said, aiming my revolver. “Besides, we’re family. You should’ve known betrayal was in the cards.”

The fight was quick, brutal, and honestly heartbreaking. Bersia was strong, but she was no match for Florentina’s raw power and my underhanded tactics. As she fell, her eyes locked with mine. I won’t lie; it stung more than a little. But there was no time for sentiment. We had to go.

By the time the dust settled, Florentina had absorbed the heart’s power, and I had to fake my death to cover our tracks. A dramatic explosion, a well-placed corpse (not mine, obviously), and a convincing trail of destruction sealed the deal.

“Nice knowing you, sis,” I said as we rode off into the necrotic swamplands.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Florentina replied with a rare smile.

We’d done it. The heart was ours, the swamplands would be united, and I was officially “dead.” But as I looked at Florentina, her newfound power practically radiating off her, I couldn’t help but grin. Sure, she was a meathead, but she was my meathead. And together, there was no stopping us.

Except maybe the guilt over Bersia. But hey, that’s a problem for another day.

Let me tell you, life as a Jorgenskull wasn’t all sunshine and orgasms. While my sisters were busy flexing their slabs of muscle and perfecting their menacing grunts, I, the unsoiled jewel of the family, spent my days sharpening my wits and finding new ways to get other people blamed for my messes. That talent turned out to be bloody useful when I stumbled upon a plot to assassinate Mother Dearest. I wasn’t snooping, mind you; I was just rifling through some diplomat’s belongings, looking for dirt (or, let’s be honest, booze), when I found the poisoned quills and coded love notes of murder. Naturally, the unsullied pinnacle of saintliness that I am couldn’t let that stand.

I’m no hero—just ask literally anyone—but family is family. So, I donned my most virtuous guise as a brothel worker (shut up) and infiltrated the assassin’s guild. It didn’t take long for me to pinpoint the spineless lordling behind it all. Turns out, his idea of ambition was as limp as his cock. Long story short, I shoved a dagger so far up his arse he could taste steel, and that was that. Mother didn’t ask for details, and I didn’t bother explaining. We’ve got a good system: I handle the dirty work, and she pretends I’m still the sweet, innocent maiden she raised.

My reward? Getting “volunteered” to work for Indemira Debussy and her creepy little murder cult, the Varenkun Assassination Unit. The VAU isn’t a proper organization; it’s a sweaty-palmed collection of death-worshipping nutjobs who think sacrificing people makes their gods horny. I don’t like fanatics—they’re like perverts, always wanting a piece of your ass, but with less charm. Still, being the paragon of adaptability that I am, I played the part.

Indemira herself? Oh, she’s a peach. Smart, ruthless, and charismatic enough to make you forget she’s a complete psychopath. Also, the strumpet is nice to look at and I may have entertained eating a strawberry or two out of a certain hole. My job was simple: infiltrate, kill, and report back. Easy enough if you can ignore all the ritual chanting, blood-dripping altars, and the occasional orgy—I mean “ceremony.” Honestly, it gave me the shivers, but the wholesome maiden of practicality knows how to fake it.​

During one mission, I encountered something even more horrifying than Indemira’s fan club: the Defiled. These things didn’t just kill you—they twisted you into something grotesque and wrong, like bad art brought to squelching, screaming life. My first run-in was in a library. I’d barely started looting the place when one of those flesh-melting horrors showed up. I shot it, stabbed it, and shot it again, but the bastard didn’t know how to stay dead.

And that’s when the pure beacon of chastity got scratched. A tiny graze, nothing major—or so I thought. Turns out, the Defiled spread their corruption like a venereal disease at an orgy (Not that I'd know about that). The infection crept through my veins, turning my flawless temple of virtue into a ticking time bomb. No amount of cursing or shooting could stop it, and I was fresh out of ideas. Even booze didn't work.

Enter Comm’Orra. Imagine an overdramatic stage actor with a golden mask and a voice so silky it could get a patrician to drop her panties. This bloke swept in like he was auditioning for a role as “Eldritch Savior #1” and offered me a deal: immunity from the infection in exchange for… something. He didn’t say what, and I didn’t ask. The pragmatic angel of wholesomeness knows when to shut up and take the deal.

With a wave of his hand and some chanting that sounded like a drunk orgy in reverse, the infection burned out of me. I screamed, I swore, I might’ve cried a little, but it worked. Comm’Orra disappeared as theatrically as he arrived, leaving me wondering what the hell I’d just signed up for. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be a pain in my virginal ass.

When I returned to Hextor, things had gone tits-up. Florentina had her regime, the Defiled were pushed back (temporarily), and Bersia… didn’t make it. The righteous little cherub tried to stop us from upsetting the delicate balance of the world or whatever, but she underestimated how far we’d go. Florentina says it was unavoidable. I say it was messy. Either way, she’s dead, and I get to carry that particular weight around. Lucky me.

Now, I’m back to being a spy—lying, stealing, and occasionally pewing someone who gets on my nerves. The VAU still thinks I’m one of them, Indemira still gives me the creeps, and Comm’Orra’s mysterious “price” looms like an unpaid tab at a shady pub. But until that day comes, the shining paragon of virtue and chastity will keep doing what she does best: living one lie at a time, with a smile on her face and a revolver in her hand.